The Summoning dp-1 Page 2

  I figured I could just name a guy I liked and that would be enough. Not a chance. Miranda had outed me —telling him I liked him. I'd been horrified. Well, mostly. There'd also been a little part of me that hoped he'd go "Cool. I really like Chloe, too." Not a chance. Before, we used to talk in Spanish class sometimes. Now he sat two rows away, like I'd suddenly developed the world's worst case of BO.

  We'd just reached the cafeteria when someone called my name. I turned to see Nate Bozian jogging toward me, his red hair like a beacon in the crowded hall. He bumped into a senior, grinned an apology, and kept coming.

  "Hey," I said as he drew near.

  "Hey yourself. Did you forget Petrie rescheduled film club for lunchtime this week? We're discussing avant-garde. I know you love art films."

  I fake gagged.

  "I'll send your regrets, then. And I'll tell Petrie you aren't interested in directing that short either."

  "We're deciding that today?"

  Nate started walking backward. "Maybe. Maybe not. So I'll tell Petrie —"

  "Gotta run," I said to my friends and hurried to catch up with him.

  * * *

  The film club meeting started backstage as always, where we'd go through business stuff and eat lunch. Food wasn't allowed in the auditorium.

  We discussed the short, and I was on the list for directors —the only freshman who'd made the cut. After, as everyone else watched scenes from avant-garde films, I mulled through my options for an audition tape. I snuck out before it ended and headed back to my locker.

  My brain kept whirring until I was halfway there. Then my stomach started acting up again, reminding me that I'd been so excited about making the short list that I'd forgotten to eat.

  I'd left my lunch bag backstage. I checked my watch. Ten minutes before class. I could make it.

  * * *

  Film club had ended. Whoever left the auditorium last had turned out the lights, and I didn't have a clue how to turn them on, especially when finding the switch would require being able to see it. Glow-in-the-dark light switches. That's how I'd finance my first film. Of course, I'd need someone to actually make them. Like most directors, I was more of an idea person.

  I picked my way through the aisles, bashing my knees twice. Finally my eyes adjusted to the dim emergency lights, and I found the stairs leading backstage. Then it got tougher.

  The backstage dissolved into smaller areas curtained off for storage and makeshift dressing rooms. There were lights, but someone else had always turned them on. After feeling around the nearest wall and not finding a switch, I gave up. The faint glow of more emergency lights let me see shapes. Good enough.

  Still, it was pretty dark. I'm afraid of the dark. I had some bad experiences as a child, imaginary friends who lurked in dark places and scared me. I know that sounds weird. Other kids dream up playmates —I imagined bogeymen.

  The smell of greasepaint told me I was in the dressing area, but the scent, mingled with the unmistakable odor of mothballs and old costumes, didn't calm me the way it usually did.

  Three more steps and I did let out a shriek as fabric billowed around me. I'd stumbled into a curtain. Great. Exactly how loud had I screamed? I really hoped these walls were soundproof.

  I swept my hand over the scratchy polyester until I found the opening and parted the curtains. Ahead, I could make out the lunch table. Something yellow sat on the top. My bag?

  The makeshift hall seemed to stretch before me, yawning into darkness. It was the perspective —the two curtained sides angled inward, so the hall narrowed. Interesting illusion, especially for a suspense film. I'd have to remember that.

  Thinking about the corridor as a movie set calmed my nerves. I framed the shot, the bounce of my step adding a jerkiness that would make the scene more immediate, putting the viewer in the head of our protagonist, the foolish girl making her way toward the strange noise.

  Something thumped. I started, and my shoes squeaked and that noise made me jump higher. I rubbed the goose bumps on my arms and tried to laugh. Okay, I did say strange noise, didn't I? Cue the sound effects, please.

  Another noise. A rustling. So we had rats in our spooky corridor, did we? How cliched. Time to turn off my galloping imagination and focus. Direct the scene.

  Our protagonist sees something at the end of the corridor. A shadowy figure —

  Oh, please. Talk about cheap thrills. Go for original . . . mysterious . . .

  Take two.

  What's that she sees? A child's lunch bag, bright yellow and new, out of place in this old, condemned house.

  Keep the film rolling. Don't let my mind wander —

  A sob echoed through the silent rooms, then broke off, dissolving into a wet snuffling.

  Crying. Right. From my movie. The protagonist sees a child's lunch bag, then hears eerie sobs. Something moved at the end of the hall. A dark shape —

  I flung myself forward, racing for my bag. I grabbed it and took off.

  Three

  "Chloe! Hold up!"

  I'd just dumped my uneaten lunch in my locker and was walking away when Nate hailed me. I turned to see him edging sideways through a group of girls. The bell sounded and the hall erupted, kids jostling like salmon fighting their way upstream, carrying along anything in their path. Nate had to struggle to reach me.

  "You took off from film club before I could grab you. I wanted to ask if you're going to the dance."

  "Tomorrow? Um, yeah."

  He flashed a dimpled grin. "Great. See you there."

  A swarm of kids engulfed him. I stood there, staring after him. Had Nate just tracked me down to ask if I was going to the dance? It wasn't the same as asking me to the dance, but still. . . I was definitely going to need to rethink my outfit.

  A senior whacked into me, knocking off my backpack and muttering something about "standing in the middle of the hall." As I bent to grab my hag, I felt a gush between my legs.

  I snapped upright and stood frozen before taking a tentative step.

  Oh God. Had I actually wet myself? I took a deep breath. Maybe I was sick. My stomach had been dancing all day.

  See if you can clean up and if it's bad, take a cab home.

  In the bathroom, I pulled down my pants and saw bright red.

  For a couple of minutes, I just sat there, on the toilet, grinning like an idiot and hoping that the rumor about school bathroom cams wasn't true.

  I balled up toilet paper in my panties, pulled up my jeans, and waddled out of the stall. And there it was, a sight that had mocked me since fall: the sanitary napkin dispenser.

  I reached into my back pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill, a ten, and two pennies. Back into the stall. Scavenge through my backpack. Find . . . one nickel.

  I eyed the machine. Drew closer. Examined the scratched lock, the one Beth said could be opened with a long fingernail. Mine weren't long, but my house key worked just fine.

  A banner week for me. Getting short-listed for the director spot. Nate asking me about the dance. My first period. And now my first criminal act.

  After I fixed myself up, I dug into my backpack for my brush and emerged instead with the tube of hair color. I lifted it. My reflection in the mirror grinned back.

  Why not add "first skipped class" and "first dye job" to the list? Coloring my hair at the school bathroom sink wouldn't be easy, but it would probably be simpler than at home, with Annette hovering.

  Dying a dozen bright red streaks took twenty minutes. I'd had to take off my shirt to avoid getting dye on it, so I was standing over the sink in my bra and jeans. Luckily no one came in.

  I finished squeezing the strands dry with paper towel, took a deep breath, looked . . . and smiled. Kari had been right. It did look good. Annette would freak. My dad might notice. Might even get mad. But I was pretty sure no one was going to hand me a twelve-and-under menu anymore.

  The door creaked. I shoved the towels in the trash, grabbed my shirt, and dashed into a stall. I barely had
time to latch the door before the other girl started crying. I glanced over and saw a pair of Reeboks in the next stall.

  Should I ask whether she was okay? Or would that embarrass her?

  The toilet flushed and the shadow at my feet shifted. The stall lock clicked open. When the taps started, though, her sobs got even louder.

  The water shut off. The towel roll squeaked. Paper crumpled. The door opened. It shut. The crying continued.

  A cold finger slid down my spine. I told myself she'd changed her mind, and was staying until she got things under control, but the crying was right beside me. In the next stall.

  I squeezed my hands into fists. It was just my imagination.

  I slowly bent. No shoes under the divider. I ducked farther. No shoes in any of the stalls. The crying stopped.

  I yanked my shirt on and hurried from the bathroom before it could start again. As the door shut behind me, all went silent. An empty hall.

  "You!"

  I spun to see a custodian walking toward me, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  "Th-the bathroom," I said. "I was using the bathroom."

  He kept coming. I didn't recognize him. He was maybe my dad's age, with a brush cut, wearing our school janitorial uniform. A temp, filling in for Mr. Teitlebaum.

  "I —I'm heading to c-class now."

  I started walking.

  "You! Get back here. I want to talk to you."

  The only other sound was my footsteps. My footsteps. Why couldn't I hear his?

  I walked faster.

  A blur passed me. The air shimmered about ten feet ahead, a figure taking form in a custodian's shirt and slacks. I wheeled and broke into a run.

  The man let out a snarl that echoed down the hall. A student rounded the corner, and we almost collided. I stammered an apology and glanced over my shoulder. The janitor was gone.

  I exhaled and closed my eyes. When I opened them, the blue uniform shirt was inches from my face. I looked up . . . and let out a shriek.

  He looked like a mannequin that had gotten too close to a fire. Face burned. Melted. One eye bulged, exposed. The other eye had slid down near his cheekbone, the whole cheek sagging, lips drooping, skin shiny and misshapen and —

  The twisted lips parted. "Maybe now you'll pay attention to me."

  I ran headlong down the hall. As I flew past one classroom door, it opened.

  "Chloe?" A man's voice.

  I kept running.

  "Talk to me!" the horrible, garbled voice snarled, getting closer. "Do you know how long I've been trapped here?"

  I flew through the doors into the stairwell and headed up.

  Up? All the stupid heroines go up!

  I veered across the landing and hit the next set of stairs.

  The custodian limped up the flight below, fingers clutching the railing, melted fingers, bone peeking through —

  I barreled through the doors and raced along the main hall.

  "Listen to me, you selfish brat. All 1 want is five minutes —"

  I swerved into the nearest empty classroom and slammed the door. As I backed into the center of the room, the custodian stepped through the door. Right through it. That awful melted face was gone, and he was normal again.

  "Is that better? Now will you stop screaming and talk to —"

  I darted to the window and started looking for a way to open it, then saw how far down it was. At least thirty feet . . . onto pavement.

  "Chloe!"

  The door flew open. It was the vice principal, Ms. Waugh, with my math teacher, Mr. Travis, and a music teacher whose name I couldn't remember. Seeing me at the window, Ms. Waugh threw out her arms, blocking the two men.

  "Chloe?" she said, voice low. "Honey, you need to step away from that window."

  "I was just —"

  "Chloe . . ."

  Confused, I glanced back toward the window.

  Mr. Travis shot past Ms. Waugh and tackled me. As we hit the floor, the air flew out of my lungs. Scrambling off, he accidentally kneed me in the stomach. I fell back, doubled over, wheezing.

  I opened my eyes to see the custodian standing over me. I screamed and tried to get up, but Mr. Travis and the music teacher held me down while Ms. Waugh babbled into a cell phone.

  The custodian leaned through Mr. Travis. "Now will you talk to me, girl? Can't get away."

  I thrashed, kicking at the custodian, trying to pull away from the teachers. They only held me tighter. I vaguely heard Ms. Waugh calling that help was on the way. The custodian pushed his face into mine and it changed to that horrible melted mask, so close I was staring into his one bulging eye, almost out of its socket.

  I chomped down on my tongue so I wouldn't scream. Blood filled my mouth. The more I fought, the harder the teachers restrained me, twisting my arms, pain stabbing through me.

  "Can't you see him?" I shouted. "He's right there. Please. Please, please, please. Get him away from me. Get him away!"

  They wouldn't listen. I continued to struggle, to argue, but they held me still as the burned man taunted me.

  Finally, two men in uniforms hurried through the door. One helped the teachers restrain me while the other moved behind, out of my sight. Fingers tightened on my forearm.

  Then a needle prick. Ice slid through my veins.

  The room started to sway. The custodian faded, blinking in and out.

  "No!" he yelled. "I need to speak to her. Don't you understand? She can hear me. I only want to . . ."

  His voice faded as the paramedics lowered me onto a stretcher. It rose, swaying. Swaying .. . like an elephant. I'd rode one once, with my mom, at the zoo, and my mind slipped back there, Mom's arms around me, her laughter —

  The custodian's howl of rage sliced through my memory. "Don't take her away. I need her!"

  Swaying. The elephant swaying. Mom laughing . . .

  Four

  I SAT ON THE EDGE of my hospital bed and tried to persuade myself I was still asleep. That was the best explanation for what I was hearing. I could also chalk it up to delusional, but I preferred dreaming.

  Aunt Lauren sat beside me, holding my hand. My eyes went to the nurses gliding past in the corridor. She followed my gaze, rose, and shut the door. Through a glaze of tears, I watched her and pictured Mom instead. Something inside me crumpled, and I was six years old, huddled on the bed, crying for my mother.

  I rubbed my hands over the covers, stiff and scratchy, catching at my dry skin. The room was so hot every breath made my parched throat tighten. Aunt Lauren handed me my water, and I wrapped my hands around the cool glass. The water had a metallic taste, but I gulped it down.

  "A group home," I said. The walls seemed to suck the words from my mouth, like a sound stage, absorbing them and leaving only dead air.

  "Oh God, Chloe." She pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped her nose. "Do you know how many times I've had to tell a patient he's dying? And somehow, this seems harder."

  She shifted to face me. "I know how badly you want to go to UCLA for college. This is the only way we're going to get you there, hon."

  "Is it Dad?"

  She paused, and I knew she'd like to blame him. She'd wanted to raise me after my mom passed away, spare me a life of housekeepers and empty apartments. She'd never forgiven my father for refusing. Just like she'd never forgiven him for that night my mother died. It didn't matter that they'd been sideswiped in a hit-and-run —he'd been driving, so she held him responsible.

  "No," she said finally. "It's the school. Unless you spend two weeks undergoing evaluation in a group home, it will go on your permanent record."

  "What will go on my record?"

  Her fist clenched around the tissue. "It's that da —" She caught herself. "It's the zero-tolerance policy." She spit the words with more venom than the curse.

  "Zero tolerance? You mean violence? B-b-but I didn't —"

  "I know you didn't. But to them, it's simple. You struggled with a teacher. You need help." In a home. For crazy kids. />
  * * *

  I awoke several times that night. The second time, my father was in the doorway, watching me. The third, he was sitting beside my bed. Seeing my eyes open, he reached over and awkwardly patted my hand.

  "It's going to be all right," he murmured. "Everything will be all right."

  I fell back to sleep.

  * * *

  My father was still there the next morning. His eyes were bleary, the wrinkles around his mouth deeper than I remembered. He'd been up all night, flying back from Berlin.

  I don't think Dad ever wanted kids. But he'd never tell me that, even in anger. Whatever Aunt Lauren thinks of him, he does his best. He just doesn't seem to know what to make of me. I'm like a puppy left to him by someone he loved very much, and he struggles to do right by it even if he isn't much of a dog person.

  "You changed your hair," he said as I sat up.

  I braced myself. When you run screaming through the school halls after dying your hair in the girls' bathroom, the first thing people say —well, after they get past the screaming-through-the-halls part—is "you were doing what?" Coloring your hair in a school bathroom isn't normal. Not for girls like me. And bright red streaks? While skipping class? It screams mental breakdown.

  "Do you like it?" my father asked after a moment.

  I nodded.

  He paused, then let out a strained chuckle. "Well, it's not exactly what I would have chosen, but it looks all right. If you like it, that's what counts." He scratched his throat, peppered with beard shadow. "I guess your aunt Lauren told you about this group home business. She's found one she thinks will be okay. Small, private. Can't say I'm thrilled with the idea, but it's only for a couple of weeks. . . ."

  * * *

  No one would say what was wrong with me. They had me talk to a bunch of doctors and they ran some tests, and I could tell they had a good idea what was wrong and just wouldn't say it. That meant it was bad.